


The Confessional

by dcfg21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Priest!kink, utter crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot prompted by a friend who wanted priest!kink and Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Confessional

“Sherlock?” John murmured, shuffling to the side in the cramped space.

“Just bear with me, John,” the consulting detective replied, whipping out his mobile and pressing the speed dial.

“To your left a bit, Sherlock, you’re standing on my foot.”

“Shush, John,” he admonished. “Ah, Lestrade, good. Your killer will be emerging from the rear of the church in two minutes. Have your officers ready.” His eyes glimmered in the dark and he cast a downward glance at John’s lips, pursed with irritation. “Wait,” he said suddenly, his Cupid ’s bow lips spreading into a slow, devious smile. “Make that five. You’ll have your killer in five.” He waited another moment before replying, “Yes, very good” and hanging up, shoving the phone into his trouser pocket.

“Sherlock,” John complained, “this side of the confessional isn’t really built for two. Now what are we doing in here?”

“Catching a murderer, of course. Do keep up, John. Now,” he exhaled, his eyes roving over the doctor with prurient interest, “where were we?”

“I don’t know. You shoved me in here without a word. What’s going on? And why are we wearing cassocks?” John shifted around again, trying very hard not to fall over with Sherlock’s lean frame pressed against him. His left shoulder was singing with pain from being shoved into the corner of the confessional and his back was digging into the steel filigree from the privacy window.

“We needed to look like priests, John. To throw off the killer. And it worked. He’s out there, now.”

“So bloody do something, and let’s get out of here!” John growled.

“We’ve got five minutes, John. And you’re wasting time,” Sherlock buzzed in his ear.

“Wasting time? What are you on about?” His gaze found Sherlock’s in the dim, his grey-green eyes dancing with mischief. The smile on Sherlock’s face widened and turned slightly feral, causing a rough shiver to pass over him. “Sherlock,” he warned. “ _Sherlock, no._ This is a church, for God’s sake!” he hissed.

Sherlock towered over him, leaning in dangerously, the heavy fabric of the black cassocks rustling together, sending sparks of unholy friction to places low on his body. He could feel Sherlock’s erection bulging insistently and bit back a curse as he realized his body was reacting in a decidedly enthusiastic response.

“I am well aware of our current location.”

John’s jaw clenched and he spoke through gritted teeth, attempting to divert the wanton push of Sherlock’s hips against his. “There are people outside, Sherlock. Little old ladies praying for world peace and next week’s lotto numbers. This is indecent. _Blasphemous_ ,” he rasped.

Any other protest was cut off by the swoop of Sherlock’s lips to his, hot and hungry. And definitely focused. The point of his tongue stabbed into John’s mouth, making delicious little circles, searching for every heated corner. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth and went limp, pressing back against the wall of the confessional. Suddenly, it was hot everywhere, and he burned underneath the heavy layers of the cassock, burned underneath the fire of Sherlock’s rough kiss. He gasped as Sherlock pulled back, amusement gone, replaced with the rampant stare of desire.

“John,” Sherlock purred, and the baritone rolled over him in a searing wave straight to the base of his spine.

He licked his swollen lips and was pleased to see Sherlock’s eyes lock onto the gesture with dark approval. “Yes?”

“Kneel, my child.”

 _Fuck._ John dropped to the floor so hard he thought he busted a kneecap, not caring if the loud thud could be heard across the Channel. God, he was going to be hearing that phrase in his dreams at night. He reached for Sherlock’s trousers and had them undone in seconds, Sherlock’s light chuckle ringing in his ears.

Sherlock’s erection sprang free into his waiting hands, long and elegant, so hard and beautiful. The tiny bead of moisture on the tip glistened in the darkness like a single star in the night sky. He actually had a moment of reverence before his baser instincts surged, and he wrapped his lips around Sherlock’s cock and sucked hard.

Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was pleasingly rough and he opened wider, swallowing the length in one slow pass. The taste of him was dark and erotic and the scent of incense and tobacco and Sherlock filled his nostrils, coating his tongue in heady bliss.

“Fuck, John, your mouth,” Sherlock panted. “Oh, God!”

He pulled off a bit, curving his tongue over the shaft. “No pants, Sherlock? Isn’t that illegal under priest’s robes?”

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh. “Silk doesn’t stretch. I’ve had to forgo them altogether. It seems when I’m around you now, _oh yes, right there, unnngggh_ , the lack of stretch in my boxers becomes a,” he gave a short gasp, “rather vexing problem. Damned uncomfortable.”

“This is unseemly even for you Sherlock. Wanting me to-“ he swiped at the underside of the shaft, “suck you off in a church confessional.”

Sherlock threw his head back and curled his fingers into John’s hair, urging him deeper. “I thought Cosmo urges couples to keep their sex life exciting. Isn’t that what your magazine says?”

“Exciting, yes,” he conceded, nipping tiny bites into the flesh, “Blasphemous-“

“-is exciting, yes?” Sherlock finished.

He looked at Sherlock’s hard cock bobbing in front of his face, slick and glistening with saliva and pre-come, and damned if the tremors that quaked through him weren’t tempered with a thrill. He snorted roughly through his nose. “Oh, God, yes.”

Sherlock pulled him closer and John took him deep, sliding up and down, curling his lips over his teeth and bearing down for added pressure. He wanted to prolong this moment, to tease every stifled whimper and moan he could from Sherlock’s gorgeous throat. John went all the way down, relaxing until the head hit the back of his throat.

“And besides,” Sherlock added, his voice strained, “we are catching a killer.”

Oh, yes. John had forgotten about that.

“You’ve got a minute forty-five left, John. Tick, tick.”

 _Bastard._ Fine. If he was going to hell for this sin, he might as well make it so good the devil sent for him by chauffeured limo. He clutched at Sherlock’s thighs, gripping him so hard the taller man groaned loudly, redoubling the suck and slide of his mouth around Sherlock’s hard cock. Those thighs quivered under his touch and he smiled, knowing he might just make Sherlock come before his timer ran out. _Oh, look, more excitement._

He added a hand to the mix, licking and stroking, drawing out more and more of Sherlock’s groans and gasps, surreptitiously wetting his own fingers before quickly reaching back to press one spit-slick digit to Sherlock’s twitching entrance. He pushed inside easily, instantly finding the bundle of nerves.

“VATICAN CAMEOS!”

John was sure _that_ could have been heard across the Channel, and didn’t cease in his ministrations, even as Sherlock’s cock erupted in his mouth in a torrent of salty, wet heat as he came.

Sherlock nearly collapsed on top of him with a haggard whuff, but managed a bit of composure, righting himself in a second. He gave John a self-satisfied, “Right on time,” and dashed out of the confessional. Stunned, John eased to his feet and followed, just in time to see Sherlock wind through the sparsely-occupied pews and point to a surly looking priest at the edge of the apse, looking particularly surprised.

“You there! Stop!”

The priest took off at a mad dash down the length of the nave, barreling though the outer doors, directly into the path of DI Lestrade and the waiting uniforms.

Sherlock turned, brushed himself off and frowned at the gaping worshippers. “Go on,” he waved a hand at them. “Back to your praying, or what not. The killer has been apprehended.”

John ambled to his side, still getting shocked glances from the congregation. “I don’t think it’s the killer they’re staring at,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“They know, Sherlock. They _heard_.” John enunciated.

Sherlock had the decency to look chagrined, but as quickly as it came, it was gone. “Come on, John. Let’s deal with Lestrade and get back to Baker Street.”

John tugged at the offending garment. “Right. I’ll be glad to get back into my jumper and trainers after this horrid thing.”

Sherlock’s smile did that devious little quirk again. “Keep it. Who knows, I might feel the need to blaspheme again soon.”

“Christ, Sherlock, tell me to kneel like that again, and my knees may not be able to take it.”

“There,” Sherlock smiled and swiped a pillow from the one of the pews and shoved it into his hands, and pushed him toward the exit. “You’ll be fine. It’s probably been blessed and everything.”

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Really, I want to know how you liked this one.


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